


black

by cosmofluous



Series: the interludes [1]
Category: Tokyo Ghoul
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Gen, Gore, Introspection, M/M, Rambling, hello pointless writing, i guess, implied - Freeform, kind of a
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-15
Updated: 2017-03-15
Packaged: 2018-10-05 16:13:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10312121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmofluous/pseuds/cosmofluous
Summary: (He hasn’t had his farewells yet, nor his goodbyes. He hasn’t had anyI love you’s.)A snippet from Kaneki's nine (ten?) days of torture.





	

Black. White. Black. White again. Red. What a curious choice of flooring. Like a vintage American diner, or a chessboard, or the sky. Black, then white, then black. Sometimes the tiles are diamond-shaped, and sometimes they are square. One time, he sees ellipses. It’s interesting how perspective affects shape. It’s such a shame that the cleanly-delineated spread of tiles is interrupted by streaks of red and rust.

If he looks far enough, will he see flowers? Tiny daisies growing in the cracks of black and white pavement, crushed under the feet of careless passersby, heavy pliers, steel beams. Paper-white carnations, tissue wrapped around bleeding wire. The red spiderlily is the most beautiful of all. The long thin petals are a delicate cradle for the diminutive, dying stars within. Ken has always liked their legends, romantic as they are. Wistful handfuls of colour on the far shore, or on the diverging paths of eternally departed lovers. Why hasn’t he seen more of them? There are so many people he will never see again.

(He hasn’t had his farewells yet, nor his goodbyes. He hasn’t had any _I love you’s._ )

The double doors slam open, swing. He hears the creak of the hanged man’s rope. He feels his consciousness squirrel itself away inside his own mind, away from his body. There is no shelter to be found in the cage of his ribs. His lips, teeth and tongue are a muzzle. The base of him is cracked.

Heavy, slapping footsteps, languid and smug. Somewhere, a clown splits a smile like the crescent moon, a Chelsea grin. White. Red. White. His vision is a kaleidoscope.

_No, no, no,_ says the frightened child. Pleading and tearful. _Not again, I can’t anymore, no more. No more, no, please. Not again._ Ken peels his lip back with distaste. The child never learns not to beg — that it is a foolish and pointless exercise. It only earns you humiliation and the more suffering.

In books, movies, wars, people torture other people for secrets and information, confessions. That is why euphemisms for torture are “interrogation,” and “questioning.” He has been thinking for a while now, but what is Yamori torturing him for? His spine begins to bleed from the inside; his Achilles tendons have been cut again. Ah, fallen hero. Never meant for this cold, cruel mortal world, nor the thin and capricious heights of immortals. Why him? _Why me?_ What does Yamori want from him?

Chained again.

Choices? A choice. He shudders away from that death, a butterfly smashed against a windshield. A moth beneath God’s descending palm. Such a pointless death. He remembers something Yamori had said. Fun. Enjoyment. Yamori’s enjoyment. Why is that important? Is that important? Why does he have to provide this kind of entertainment? He listens to himself screaming, feet slamming the diamond floor, cuffs rattling against his sores. What has he lost now? A nail, a joint, some flesh, some skin? An eye, his mind, the sky? He will never see the sky again. What was his Bridge of Sighs, and when did he pass it? All of that is pointless. This body is pointless.

(He didn’t know he had so many fingers and toes.)

Is it because he is a half-ghoul? Can he blame all of this on Kanou? Why did he have to become a half-ghoul in the first place? Fate, accident, tragedy? Because of Rize. Why had he met Rize again? Why did he have to have his insides _gently scrambled?_ Because she was soft and warm and pretty, and she read Takatsuki Sen. She was so vivid, so bright, the poisonous flower on the high peak. 

In the end, he did it of his own volition. Because he was a fool. Is.

Well, he’s succeeded, hasn’t he? This way, the only person getting hurt is himself. His victory is more hollow than pyrrhic, more pyrrhic than Pyrrhus.

Or is it the child’s fault? The young man with the black hair, just a boy really. He hasn’t snapped yet, not really, not yet. He despises the constant drip of blood upon the floor. It makes a soaked, irregular rhythm. He misses coffee. The back of his mouth is bitter, tainted salt from the devil’s own contraption, lost in a primordial sea. Which of them is himself?

_Mother, mother._

But there’s no salvation back there, either.

Black. White. Black. Red. Red, red, red. White. Red. The colour dyes his vision, the scene, the cut flowers, his body, his eyes, his eyes, his clothes. He has no eyes. _Sightless, unless … multifoliate rose / Of death’s twilight kingdom._ Dying kingdom, dying light. Hello, goodbye, this is me, this was me, I am leaving this behind, you can have it, you can take it.

_What’s 1000 - 7?_

I don’t want it.

**Author's Note:**

> originally written to lead into a rescue scene, which lead nowhere.
> 
> hope i didn't overtly repeat something i've already posted, and that this was mildly interesting at least.


End file.
